


A Dance Before Midnight

by Kicker



Series: Pre-War Shenanigans [4]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Dancing, F/M, OC Kiss Week, Pre-Canon, Pre-War, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 23:07:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8179223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: May 22nd, 2073. The Harbormaster Hotel on the East side of Boston is the venue for the local Police Department's annual fundraiser, prizegiving, and general pat on the back for a job well done.
For Corinna May, who's covered at least three cases of police corruption and serious misconduct in the last few months, this seems more than a little ironic. But she's not exactly one to turn down a party invitation.
And when she finds out who else has talked his way onto the guest list, she'll have even fewer regrets.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deichqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deichqueen/gifts).



> A little bit more pre-war raunch for deichqueen's Sole, Wade Russell, and mine, Corinna May, before timelines diverge and everything goes to shit.
> 
> You can read at least part of Corinna's post-war story in my series, Red Flags and Flight Suits. ;)

May 22nd, 2073. The Harbormaster Hotel on the East side of Boston is the venue for the local Police Department's annual fundraiser, prizegiving, and general pat on the back for a job well done.

For Corinna May, who's covered at least three cases of police corruption and serious misconduct in the last few months, this seems more than a little ironic. But she's not exactly one to turn down a party invitation, no matter how bitter a taste it leaves in her mouth.

Besides. That kind of taste can always be washed down with a bucket of free champagne.

A stage at the far end of the main dining hall is bedecked in lights and glitz and glamor, with a banner proclaiming _Celebrating Boston's Finest_ dangling from the front of a lectern she hopes doesn't get used for too much in the way of talking. In front of it, a mercifully small dancefloor currently occupied by one small boy attempting to polish the surface of it with his knees, and a slightly nervous-looking uniform watching him like a hawk.

The rest of the room is packed with tables, all dressed identically and immaculately in spotless white tablecloths, decorated by matching floral displays (plastic, of course) and cards that indicate the occupants of the table. There's a table for Cambridge, one for Revere Beach, at least two for Quincy and those already look like they're about to start a war between them given the daggers being glared right now.

But tonight's not just about the police. According to the guestlist she sweet-talked out of the organizer after plying him with a couple of cigarettes and her nicest smile, there's a hero schoolboy (still polishing the floor), a team of firefighters (who didn't seem to have arrived, much to Corinna's disappointment), oh... and of course, Corinna herself.

That's why there's a whole table full of her colleagues crammed into a back corner. It's far back enough that the music is mercifully quiet, but also far enough away from the action that they seem to have been missed off the refill list. For the last fifteen minutes and yes, she has been counting, she's been watching the waiters and waitresses constantly darting around, delivering fresh bottles to every single table. Every single one, that is, except hers.

Hardly surprising. Nobody likes a lawyer, after all.

But she's never let that bother her before and she isn't about to start now. She stands and smooths down her skirt, as much as she can given the size of the petticoats under it. It's not her usual style, she prefers a somewhat sleeker silhouette, but it makes up for it by showing off at least a bit of those long legs of hers, hugging her waist tight and revealing plenty of skin above that.

Well... as much of it as she wants to show to a room full of cops. So... not that much.

None of her tablemates pay any attention as she walks away and she doesn't try to catch any, either, in case they try to ask her for something. Nobody pays her any mind in fact, and while a small part of her might be a little bit resentful she decides that it's not the time or place to start acting up. The longer she avoids attention, after all, the sooner she can get away, slip out into the atrium and call a cab to take her home.

Although... it does seem a shame to waste the room, now that it's all booked and paid for by her employers. So maybe she'll just slip into the elevator and make a call to room service, instead. She hasn't annoyed the finance department for a while so perhaps they'll let her get away with a few... frivolities.

She heads toward the bar, which is hidden in an annex to the side of the room behind a pair of deep red curtains that have done approximately nothing to stem the flow of party-goers in search of more free alcohol than they were already getting delivered to their tables. She draws back one side of it, nearly taking a giggling cop to the face and having to step back to avoid being knocked off her feet altogether.

In front of the bar itself on the left there's a middle-aged couple already feeding each other snack cakes, and on the right a pair of suits who look significantly younger and smarter than the rest of the crowd. The one is turned away, pointing at the bottle he wants the bartender to fetch, the other leaning casually next to him, talking to his friend over his shoulder. He has dark hair gelled back in a style that's a little neat for Corinna's tastes, but has just enough scruff on his cheeks to suggest that he knows how to use a razor but didn't quite think this evening was worth the effort.

She likes him already, even before he turns to face out into the room, freshly-filled glass poised at his lips. Even before she catches a glimpse of what's above it.

A pair of unnecessarily blue eyes that she recognizes immediately.

_Russell_.

She doesn't even stop to think why he might be here. Chance. Fate. Providence. Whatever it is, she offers a silent thank you and sweeps elegantly toward the bar, just as he finally tips the glass into his mouth. His eyes rise over the edge of it and come to rest on hers.

He stops dead.

Only for a fraction of a second, mind, and it could just be the burn of the alcohol but she fancies that there's a crinkle comes to those eyes that says he's thinking the exact same thing she is.

_This washout of a party just got a whole lot more interesting._

He leans back toward his companion, and speaks just loudly enough for her to hear him.

"You did say this event was for Boston's finest," he says. "I think I'm beginning to understand what you meant."

Corinna keeps walking, and comes to rest her hands on the bar with her rings clicking on its marble surface.

"What do you want?" asks the bartender, and the answer's obvious because there's a pair of blue eyes still running over her, top to bottom, slow as warm syrup and she never met a guy who didn't like an innuendo that was somehow related to alcohol.

"Something warm and smooth and smoky," she replies, "that'll grab me and make me feel real good."

And from the very corner of her eye she sees the very corner of Russell's mouth rising.

If the bartender rolls his eyes she doesn't notice or care. She turns, puts her back to the bar and looks out into the room, not really seeing anything over her acute awareness of Russell's every move. He hasn't moved, not that she can tell, but it does seem like his body's angled just a little more toward her than it had been before she turned around.

"Russell," she says, eventually.

"Corinna," he replies. He nods at the glass. "Is that doing the trick?"

She takes a sip, tipping her head back as she swallows, breathing in through her nose and running her tongue over her lower lip. "It'll do for now," she says, glancing sideways at him. "Got any suggestions for later?"

His smile is wolfish, his eyes bright, and he's just starting to speak when the tannoy snaps on with a hiss and a deafening squeal.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats, the ceremony is about to commence."

Corinna lets out a regretful sigh. "I guess I'll have to wait."

  
She claps dutifully through the first few awards, but the novelty soon starts to wear off and she begins to really regret the decision not to have a cigarette while she had the chance. She gets up again, mutters _I have to powder my nose_ , not that anybody really cares, and heads out into the atrium. Right outside the enormous rotating doors stands a raucous group of suits and sequinned dresses hugging each other and screaming like it's the first time they've seen each other in years. College party, she assumes, though how they afford this kind of joint she can only imagine.

Corinna wanders away out of earshot, only to end up getting a different pain in the ears. A van's pulled up by the side-entrance to the hotel, doors swung open to reveal the insides are packed high with flight cases. A woman in a heavily bejewelled dress and a harsh fringe is standing with her hand on her hip, berating the very organizer Corinna had been speaking to earlier.

"I know we're late," she says, "you try gettin' through this traffic at this time of night. And don't you tell me we should have left earlier, you ain't the only place we've been playin' today and if you will insist on startin' at a non-standard time you're gonna run into trouble. Now get me some help bringin' this shit inside before I just drive off with it."

The organizer scurries away, his face an absolute picture. Corinna stifles her laughter, but maybe she doesn't do that so effectively because the woman looks over.

"Spare a sister a cigarette?" she asks.

"Sure," says Corinna, wandering a little closer. "You playing tonight?"

"Oh officer," she says, fluttering her eyelashes, plucking out a cigarette with delicate fingers. "You got me. What gave me away? There I was thinkin' I'd covered my tracks perfect."

"I'm not a cop," says Corinna. "I'm a lawyer."

"Quakin' in my boots," says the woman, drily, but she does hesitate before letting Corinna light it. "No conditions attached to this, right? Me takin' this don't mean I'm agreein' to anythin'."

"Damn," she replies. "I can't even persuade you not to play 'Civilization'?"

The singer laughs, loudly. "Sorry," she says. "That's on the A-list. Probably hafta play it twice, much as it pains me. Bongo bongo bongo fuck off, am I right?"

"You surely are right," laughs Corinna. "And for that I'm not even going to ask for the cigarette back."

A cloud of smoke gets laughed out into the air in response. "Seein' as we're of a mind, and you were so kind to a girl in need, I might see my way to play somethin' a little less... populist. What's your poison?"

"I'm easy," she says. "Just... something I'm more likely to hear in a seedy underground bar. You know the type."

The singer grins. "Sure thing, honey," she says. "I got you covered."

The organizer reappears with a crew of guys with sheepish expressions and sleeves already rolled up, prompting the singer to turn away to start dishing out instructions. Corinna watches them for a minute, finishing her own cigarette, then turns away from the industrious little scene only to have to pull up sharp so as not to crash right into Russell.

He does have the decency to look a little bit ashamed of himself.

Not much, though.

"Making friends?" he asks.

"Maybe," says Corinna. "Are you following me now?"

"Well," he says, easing a cigarette from a packet of his own. "I saw that beautiful dress heading out of the room in a hurry and I wanted to make sure everything was alright."

"Huh," she says, thinking that she really ought to get back inside. But it turns out he's loosened the cigarette to offer it to her and it would be rude to decline such an invitation.

He lights it and takes out one of his own and they lean back against the building, elbows just barely brushing against each other. They share a few words about the weather, the unseasonable warmth considering the lateness of the spring, and so on and so banal. As soon as she drops her cigarette, letting it bounce still-glowing over the concrete he drops his own and turns to her. He touches his fingertips to her cheek, stroking them down her jaw and leaning in for a warm, smoky kiss, exactly the kind she needs.

But if he does that she'll never go back inside, so she reaches up with a single finger and presses it on his lips. "We gotta go back in there before someone wonders where we are."

"Speak for yourself," he says, taking her hand. "I'm not even supposed to be here. I'll accept full responsibility for leading you astray."

And it's tempting, so very tempting to allow that to happen but she can't, there's a reason she's here, there's a reason she spent what felt like a whole goddamned paycheck on the dress and even he couldn't tempt her to miss out on this.

"I really do have to go back inside," she says.

"Fine," he says. "No kiss. Maybe a taste, before you leave me?"

He leans down toward her shoulder and gently brushes his lips against her neck, just above the necklace that skims her collarbones with strands of rough turquoise and polished silver. He just nips her skin with his teeth, sending shivers right down her spine.

"Careful", she says, placing her hand flat on his chest when she'd far rather be curling her fingers around his collar and pulling him in for more.

"Damn," he says, lifting his head. "You're killing me here."

Speak for yourself, she thinks, as he presses his hips against hers and slides his hands around her waist.

"Good things come to those who wait," she says.

He traces a thumb along her jaw to make sure she's looking into his eyes when he says it, as if he wants to make sure she knows what he means.

"Well, good thing," he says. "I guess I'll be waiting."

She knows exactly what he means.

  
Her head is woozy and her legs not a little weak as she heads back into the hotel, but she makes it back to the table in one piece. After an hour or so of polite applause, degrading to a listless tap of one hand against her leg as she inhales the last fumes from her whiskey glass, Corinna has had about enough. Half of her colleagues have disappeared, her boss looks suspiciously like he might be asleep and she hasn't seen Russell come back in despite her watching the doorway like a hawk. Maybe he's given up, and she wouldn't blame him. She knows she wouldn't stick around for the sake of a half-promise like the one she'd given.

_Good things come to those who wait._

_God, Corinna. You joked about his chat-up lines, and listen to you now._

Her eyes are just closing in something that might be regret when she hears the announcer cough and hurry his way through the next nominations. Outstanding effort at something or other, and once he's done mispronouncing names she hears those six little words she's been needing to hear for a long time.

_And the winner is... Corinna May._

She smiles.

She's been working real hard, the seventy-hour weeks stretching into nineties, barely enough time to get home and fall into bed with the next set of casenotes before it's suddenly morning and time to start all over again. But it all pays off in the end. She hasn't made it yet, not by any stretch of the imagination, but receiving this particular award at the tender age of twenty-five is definitely going to turn some heads.

Nothing like a little something shiny on the edge of the desk to draw in the more lucrative clients.

With a pacific smile, she brushes down her skirt and rises into the spotlight. She starts to walk toward the stage, her back straight, her silver shoes making no sound on the carpeted floor. Applause still ripples around the room and she basks in it as she steps onto and begins to cross the polished wooden dancefloor.

Tip-tap.

She accepts the award with grace, _it's an honor, thank you,_ and on the way back to the table with her prize she finally spots Russell, sat at one of the frontmost tables next to his friend, leaning back in his chair. He claps slowly and deliberately as she passes. Aware that eyes are still on her, she keeps walking, giving him the briefest wink as she does.

Perhaps he doesn't notice. Perhaps he doesn't care. But it hardly matters now because she's almost off the hook. And back at the table, as if to hurry that moment along, a fresh bottle of champagne has finally arrived and feeling indulgent after the alcohol hits her stomach, she even stays through the last few awards, until the lectern is removed from the stage and the curtains drawn back to reveal the singer she'd met outside.

She's a long way back but she fancies that the singer casts a regretful look in her direction when the inevitable happens. First song.

Civilization baby, _does nobody in this country have any taste?_

Luckily, or unluckily considering that the champagne's all shared out already and the music is continuing in the same vein, one of Corinna's colleagues decides to take the opportunity to chat to her and keeps her distracted and reasonably entertained by his slurring pronouncements on the state of the legal profession in 2073. But after a while the music stops for just long enough of to grab her attention because it can't be over yet, surely, it's not even midnight.

The singer stands tall by the microphone, sequins on her dress sending up sparks of light even brighter than the peacock-blue beads sewn into Corinna's.

"I got to take a little break," she purrs. "But don't go nowhere. The next few are for a sister who showed me a little kindness earlier, and given the state of the world today that's somethin' we could all do with. So hold onto your hats, and maybe each other. I'll be back rightaway."

Corinna times her walk perfectly so she's just stepping up to Russell's table when the singer's stepping back up to the microphone, and the trilby hat with the double bass is plucking the first few notes.

"Dance with me?" she says, though it's not really a question and it's not like the answer was ever really going to be no.

This isn't waving hands and shaking limbs, the misdirection and frenetic bouncing of what's been played so far, the stuff Corinna's wasted the last few weekends making half-hearted attempts to learn. This is straight-up foreplay. This is hands stroking over skin and clothing alike, this is fingers toying with buttons and zips, this is lips that almost touch only to be turned away at the last second. And they're just as bad, or good or whatever as each other. As much as she leans back against him and slides right down his front, he supports her on the way up and presses his knee between her legs, as much as he can with these damn petticoats in the way.

They finish the last song with one pair of hands holding each other, fingers intertwined, and his arm around her waist, holding her tight against him and just lifting her feet off the floor.

"You know," he says, "I could carry you out of here right now and throw you in the back of my car."

"Neither of us are driving anywhere," she says. "We've both drunk far too much for that."

"Who said anything about driving?" he asks.

She points to the floor with her spare hand, _put me down,_ and he does it so obediently she can't help but smile.

"I don't like to cramp my style," she says, "Besides, I have a perfectly good room upstairs."

"Is that an invitation?" he asks.

She thinks for a moment. Not a long one, though.

"Yes," she says, and turns away.

  
She can't hear his footsteps over the carpeted floor but she doesnt need to look behind her to know that he's following. Why wouldn't he, after all. She heads back to her table to collect her award and then to get to the exit she has to pass another table, empty of revellers but with a full bottle of champagne sitting fresh and cool and unopened in the ice bucket. As she passes she pauses and thinks for another very brief moment before grabbing it and continuing on out into the atrium.

Waste not, want not.

In the elevator she resists the temptation to pin him to the side of it because her hands are full, after all, and every few floors the doors ping open to reveal another elderly couple somehow surprised that the elevator is going the wrong direction and that really puts a dampener on a makeout session.

It doesn't matter anyway, not really. His hand is on her back, his fingers already playing with the zipper of her dress, just brushing against the skin above it.

_Good things come to those who wait._

On the fifteenth floor the doors ping open for the last time. She leads the way toward the room, pulls her key from her pocket and opens the door, gliding in and depositing her winnings on the dark-varnished desk by the window. He wanders into the room after her, looks around.

"Not bad," he says, his eyes fixed on her. "Not bad at all."

He backs her against the window, an echo of the last time perhaps, and runs his hand down her cheek for the second time that evening.

"So," he says. "Now can I kiss you?"

"You certainly may," she says.

He does so, hard. It's just as warm and smooth and smoky as she's been imagining for the last few hours, and his hand slides around her back toward the zipper of the dress but it's too soon for that.

"One moment," she says, and heads to the door, pulls the Do Not Disturb sign from the handle and hangs it on the outside.

She beckons him toward her and doesn't make a move until he does as he's told. She unfastens the few buttons on his jacket but when he reaches out to her she bats his hands away and circles around to stand behind him.

"Is there a reason you're tormenting me like this?" he asks.

"Yes," she says, pulling his jacket off his shoulders, tossing it aside and reaching up to brush her lips against his ear. "For the fun of it."

He folds his arms in front of his chest as though he's unimpressed, but it only takes unfastening the top two buttons of his shirt for him to relent and allow her to strip it from him, depositing it on top of the discarded jacket. He's leaner than he was the last time, and whether it's through hard training or hard times she can't tell but he certainly hasn't lost any of his strength.

She turns her back on him and pulls her hair aside even though it's not nearly long enough to get caught in the zipper. His fingers trail down her spine as he releases her from the dress, the silk lining slipping easily over her skin as he pulls it over her shoulders. But though their upper halves are both bare and free to the touch he's still wearing his pants and the petticoats are still doing their job of keeping him distant. For a moment they stand there, both half-laughing at the absurdity, but then two pairs of hands make sure it's all gone and she's stood between his knees as he's sat on the bed, his hands running over her hips and holding onto her ass, pulling her toward him.

"This is what you want, right?" he asks.

"Hell yes," she says.

His cock is as hard and warm and good as she remembered, and the way he's sitting up and pulling her close makes it even more so. He drags his thumb over her lips to open up her mouth for him and the pleasure he takes in the sight is obvious even before she closes her lips around it and adds to it with the sensation of her tongue. His hands become more insistent, needy even, pulling her hard onto him, digging hard into her skin.

She can see what she's doing to him and that's most of what makes it so good, the teeth that dig into his own lower lip in concentration, the flush of red that shows over his cheeks. He looks up at her with those blue, blue eyes and she knows what he's thinking.

_I can't hold on._

She smiles and rocks her hips just so.

_Don't even try._

He fights it for a little while, or maybe he just enjoys it for that time, and he groans and he grunts and he lets out a final exclamation that Corinna can't help but find amusing. He grumbles at her for laughing and falls back onto the bed, dragging her with him, not letting her leave him. He buries his face into her neck and breathes heavy and hot onto her skin.

"Fuck," he says, eventually, loosening his grip. "I cannot get over you. You are just too delicious."

  
A few minutes later she's standing in the bathroom, staring at her reflection. She wipes away the remains of her lipstick and runs her fingers through her hair, pushing it back into some kind of order.

Oh, Corinna, she thinks. What do you think you're doing. You'd sworn off picking up guys in bars, what are you doing now?

Her reflection grins back at her. _This is a hotel, not a bar. This is fine. Now get back in there._

When she does go back she notices that he's moved himself up the bed, lying right in the middle of it propped up on most of the pillows. His hands are hooked behind his head and he's stretched out luxuriantly with his legs splayed, not even the slightest attempt to cover himself up.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

"You're staring," he says, shifting slightly.

"Obviously," she replies but she does drag her eyes away and heads over to the desk, running her fingers over the neck of the waiting bottle of champagne, looking around for glasses. And she knows for certain that the glasses aren't in either of the cupboards under that desk, but she bends down to check in them anyway.

Finally locating the glassware she pops open the bottle, pours out and pads over the carpeted floor to hand him a glass, settling down beside him.

"I could get used to this," he says and she's not sure if he means this, the _naked-woman-bringing-him-drinks_ this, or this, _Corinna-May_ this.

_So could I_ , she thinks, and she's not sure what she means either but she doesn't say anything, she leaves it too long for that and maybe that's deliberate because it's a whole question she wasn't expecting or wanting to have to deal with.

Whatever it is, he's reaching up to drag her into a kiss, and he catches her arm so her glass almost falls out of her hand. It doesn't, but what it does do is splash cold champagne onto his chest. He exclaims at first but then she reaches out to catch a little of it with her fingertips, licking them clean as he watches with rapt fascination.

With a grin he pushes her back, dips his fingers into his glass and shakes a few drops onto her chest, only a little, droplets small enough to sit and fizz on her skin instead of trickle down it. He leans down and claims each one with his lips, drawing a meandering line between her breasts and down her stomach, both hot and cold and so indescribably gentle and delicious that she doesn't even notice him discard the glass, too focused on his lips and tongue and the way he just dips his fingers into her pussy exactly when she thinks she's about to go out of her mind with need for it.

He brings her off, slowly, gently, leaving her poised on the edge of release for what feels like hours before but can only be moments, moments of aching anticipation before he finally relents and pushes her over the edge with a few hard strokes of his tongue. She sees stars and moons and cries out her thanks to whichever celestial being brought him to her just when she needed him, then falls still and silent and sightless.

The world shifts, there's a scratch and a hiss and she doesn't have to open her eyes to know he's found the complimentary hotel-branded cigarettes and miniature pack of matches, old-fashioned as they are. By the time she does he's already taken the first drag on it, but when he sees her watching he pauses with the cigarette half-way to his lips.

He turns his hand around and offers it to her, placing it right between her own lips, then lights another for himself, the acrid tang of the second extinguished match melding with the fresh cigarette smoke. He heads over to the window, opens it up and stands for a moment, a silhouette against the bright lights of the city, before returning to fetch the bottle and refilling their glasses.

I could get used to this, she thinks, again. She still doesn't say it.

"What now?" she asks.

He points across the room. "Could turn on that TV," he says. "All sorts of interesting channels. Might get some ideas."

"Nah," she says, stubbing out the cigarette. "I got plenty of my own."

Most of them involve jumping in the shower, she's sticky from the champagne and dancing and far too hot. It's not exactly unwelcome when he follows her in to 'help', running soap-filled hands all over her until his need becomes too great. He drags her back out into the room to undo their good work on a pile of damp bathtowels, then over that dark old desk by the window, the cool evening air so nice on hot skin.

  
In the morning she wakes to the scent of coffee. There's a white ceramic cup sat right in her eyeline, tendrils of condensing steam curling above it. It sits next to a half-glass of champagne that had turned out to be decidedly less interesting than what had been on offer the night before. But the room's so quiet she worries for a moment that he's left the coffee and run, but when she looks he's still there beside her, and his head turns quickly as she moves.

"Hi," she says.

"Morning," he says. "You alright?"

"Yeah," she says, reaching up to rub a hand over her eyes. "You?"

He nods, a little thoughtfully. "Yeah. But I should be going," he says. "I have things to do."

She rolls onto her back, the sheet slipping over her skin, just giving him a glimpse of what he's about to leave.

"Important things?" she asks, casually.

"Yeah," he laughs. "But nothing that can't stand to wait a little while."

He pushes himself up on his elbow and beckons her toward him. When she's shuffled up close he slides his knee between hers and his hand around her waist, leaning in to press kisses on her neck, just below her ear.

"Never change," he says, quietly, and she smiles. She certainly doesn't plan to change, even if she thought she were able to, but it's nice to have one person liking her just the way she is.

"I won't," she says. "I promise."


End file.
